They sat by the fire talking about anything and nothing until the embers burned down to ash. Kate, moving to blow out a candle that had begun to smoke, paused by the window and Munro came to stand behind her. She leaned into him. ‘I have a notion to walk – not far, just to the top of the hill. It’s such a fine night.’
He was resting his head on top of hers, stroking her hair with his chin. ‘Are you not afraid to walk out with me and the moon is full?’
‘A risk maybe . . . but worth the taking.’ She swivelled round. ‘Sybilla? Archie? It isn’t often we have the leisure to star-gaze.’
Though there was little wind the air was sharp and clear and Sybilla, feeling the bite of it on her skin, expelled her breath like a puff of smoke. She tucked her arms under her shawl. ‘It’s nippier than I expected.’
Archie said, ‘I can keep you warm . . . for a small consideration.’
‘I haven’t much silver.’ She knotted the shawl.
‘Then I’ll have to take payment in kind.’ He bent his head and she reached up for him, their breath curling together, the taste of him sweet on her tongue.
Ahead of them, the path wound through gorse and bramble, voices floating backwards: snippets of phrases; Munro’s low chuckle, Kate’s higher, musical laugh.
‘It will be a fine thing,’ Archie trailed the back of his hand along Sybilla’s neck. ‘When we have nine years of marriage to our credit and still be sweet.’
She felt a catch in her throat and a stinging behind her eyes. ‘It is a fine thing already and will be finer still to be married at all.’ She sucked in an involuntary shiver, as if it was a sliver of ice stabbing her chest, ‘We should catch up, else they’ll be crying us home before ever we make the top.’
‘Or we could wait here . . .’ Archie gestured to a patch of shadow a few yards from the path, in the shelter of an overhang.
‘I have a reputation to think on.’
‘Do you not trust me?’ His eyes were dark, the pupils distended.
‘I don’t trust myself.’
They broke through the gorse onto the open hillside, scrambling the last few feet to where Munro and Kate leant against a slab of rock, softened with lichen.
Sybilla sank down beside Kate, pressing her hand to her side. Below them, Broomelaw reared like a standing stone, rugged, secure, the slates slicked silver by the moonlight, the barmkin wall casting a curving shadow towards the loch. Kate cocked her head and raised her finger to her mouth. A soft splash carried to them through the stillness, as a fish broke the surface of the water.
‘One of Robbie’s fugitives, I presume.’ Archie leaned back.
‘Aye, he hasn’t improved much since last you were here. It’s well we don’t count on him to feed us.’ Kate switched her attention to the sky arched above them, peppered with stars.
‘D’you think . . .’ Sybilla stared up at the Pleiades. ‘. . . there are folk up there, seeing us as a pinprick that sparkles in their sky?’ She rubbed her cheek against the velvet of Archie’s doublet, ‘Wouldn’t it be fine to go and see?’
‘I have enough trouble traipsing about Scotland after William, without wishing for the stars.’
An uncomfortable silence, in which Sybilla was aware of cold seeping through her skirts and settling on her stomach. She heard only half of Archie’s next sentence.
‘. . . I have wondered about the Americas.’
Munro shot upright. ‘The Americas? Yesterday it was the Solway.’
‘Aye and so it is. So it will be. Only . . .’
‘Only you would wish to have more distance between us and William than Scotland can provide.’ It was said. That which Sybilla had vowed never to say; lest speaking the fear breathed life into it. Turning away from Archie’s outstretched hand, she fled for the path, Kate close behind.
The mood of the evening broken, Kate re-appeared only briefly, Sybilla not at all. Munro was leaning his head against the lintel of the fireplace as he poked at the ashes. Behind him, Archie ranged the length of the room, his progress punctuated by the intermittent squeaking of the floorboards. Uncovering a remnant of log, its jagged tip still glowing, Munro criss-crossed slivers of kindling over it and blew, his breath steady and slow.
‘Don’t revive the fire on my behalf.’
‘Archie . . .’ Munro stood up, turned.
‘Leave it.’ Archie had stopped pacing and was staring out into the darkness.
Munro waited, as if an inner sense warned him that answers might come the quicker if unforced.
‘I did think on the Americas, but we haven’t the silver, forbye the stories that suggest it isn’t just plain sailing there either.’
Munro was picking at spikes of gorse stuck to his sleeve, ‘This thing with William. Has he been more difficult these months past? Kate fell foul of him in Edinburgh at the Queen’s entry and I have crossed swords with Maxwell since.’
‘Oh, we heard. Of both. In detail and at length, both Maxwell and William took great pains to make sure of that.’
‘There was no mention of the Frost Fair?’
‘No. Why?’
‘We had the misfortune to meet up with him there also . . . it was a close run thing.’
‘I take it he had the worst of it? Or we would no doubt have heard the whole. Though how much credence Glencairn gives to anything William says these days . . . he is more often drunk than sober and all not always as he paints it. Not that that stops the rant.’
‘I hope you do not bear the brunt of it.’
‘No. My quarrel with William is more personal. What I feared at the first . . . it has come. Sybilla can hardly move without William’s eyes on her and her refusal to respond to the direct approaches he has made serves only to quicken his desire. She says she can handle him, but the sooner I can take her away . . .’
‘Does Glencairn know?’
‘Lady Glencairn does. At least we think so, and that the reason she favours our attachment. . . . Once we are betrothed he won’t risk rousing his father.’
‘Not if he’s any wit.’
‘The sooner we get sorted with Glencairn. . . . Perhaps it would be best to leave first thing . . .’
Avoiding thought of the children, the promised spawn, Munro said, ‘An early night then.’
‘Aye . . . You’ll not mind looking at the tower for us? It’s far enough away from Kilmaurs that William should not trouble us. At least I trust so.’
‘I’m happy to help. Though it will have to wait till after lambing, but I don’t suppose you’ll have it settled so soon?’
‘I dare say not.’ Archie was picking at the window frame, scattering flakes of paint onto the sill.
‘It won’t speed matters if I have to make repairs to my own house.’ Munro risked a smile, ‘I don’t wish to be maudlin, but this marriage . . . it gives us pleasure.’
Chapter Eleven
‘It isn’t the best way.’ Sybilla was adamant. She leant back against the warm sandstone of the disused tower where Archie had suggested they stop for a bite of the lunch that Agnes had provided, and clasped her hands about her knees. ‘You have sound arguments for Glencairn and they no doubt will pass, but I don’t want the work spoiled for want of a wee bit softening first. I will but drop a hint or two to Lady Glencairn, a wife . . .’ she smiled up at him, a hint of promise in her eyes, ‘. . . can oft forward things.’
‘Speak to her then, but don’t be long about it.’ He touched her hair, turned copper by the sun, as if in apology for questioning her judgement, then reached for her hand and raised her to her feet. An unspoken need to dispel the shadow that had fallen on them the previous night lay between them, and though there was nothing to be gained by a look at this tower, it was so similar in plan to the one at Dunisle that it would be easy to imagine themselves there. They wandered hand in hand through the part ruinous tower, busy with their thoughts, each in their own way seeking to re-capture the anticipation of a life together.
Sybilla looked to the barrel-vaulted ki
tchen, thinking on the draw of the fire, the potential for storage, the need for a cool room; and in the solar, at present open to the sky, dreamed of a beamed ceiling, the wood richly decorated, and a low chamber above, with a truckle bed or two for the bairns. Archie, whose thoughts she imagined ran more on the getting than the having of bairns, was pacing out the bedchamber, clearly comparing it with that of Dunisle and counting the probable cost of newly-glazed casements.
Noting his smile, she questioned, ‘What is it? Surely a pleasant thought.’
‘Pleasant enough.’ He pulled her towards the bulge in the wall, indicating the rise of a chimney. ‘If this was Dunisle and we placed the bed here, it would give us a heat to start off, not that we’d stay cold for long.’ His fingers bit into her shoulder.
‘Archie! I’m not going anywhere.’ She reached up and peeled his hand away, but held it lightly. ‘Archie?’ This time it was a question, concern shining in her grey-blue eyes.
He shook his head and forced a smile. ‘We should go. I don’t wish for it to be past dark before we get back.’
They arrived at Kilmaurs to a house in turmoil, the youngest bairn taken with a fever. Lady Glencairn had refused to let her be bled, standing her ground against the physician with a ferocity that none of the servants had encountered before. Sybilla and Lady Glencairn took it in spells to sit with the child, swabbing her with cloths wrung out in endless supplies of water ferried from the well in the yard. The sheets and the child’s shift they changed daily, morning and evening dribbling tincture of aconite onto her tongue.
For five days they battled, until at three in the morning of the sixth day, the fever broke. Sybilla flew to Lady Glencairn’s bedchamber and without thought of knocking, slipped in to whisper her awake. ‘Praise God . . . she sleeps.’
They sat together on either side of the bed, content to watch the even breathing, and to see the colour in her face fade from fever crimson to pale rose.
‘I thought us like to lose her.’ Lady Glencairn tucked away a stray tendril of hair that lay damp across the child’s mouth and reached to touch Sybilla’s arm. ‘And maybe would have done without you. When you have bairns of your own, I trust that you will have as ready a helper if ill should come.’
Sybilla picked at a loop of loosened thread in the coverlet, considering whether this was the moment to speak of her own plans, when, as if she read her thoughts, Lady Glencairn touched her arm again.
‘I would miss you sore, but you must know, especially now, I will not stand in your way.’
‘Archie . . . we have talked . . .’
‘Well then,’ Lady Glencairn’s smile was warm. ‘You have only Glencairn to pass and that should be little problem now.’
Sunlight was creeping around the edge of the shutters as the child stirred and stretched and puckered her face in a cross between a question and a smile; as if bemused to find that she woke, not in her own cot in the attic, but in the guest chamber, her mother and Sybilla at her side.
Lady Glencairn gathered her up in a fierce hug. ‘You’ve been ill, but will be bravely soon.’ She released the child back against the pillows, ‘But don’t try to rise yet. You have lost a ween of days and are in need of rest and food both.’
The crisis past, Glencairn showed himself uncharacteristically soft, saying, first to his wife, ‘Look to yourself, madam. You have saved the bairn – see that it isn’t at your own expense’, then to Sybilla, ‘Nor will your part in this be forgotten.’
William trailed Sybilla to where she rested, at Lady Glencairn’s behest, in the small, walled garden on the east side of the castle. He slid onto the bench by her side. ‘I hear we owe you thanks.’
She edged away from him. ‘I did only what anyone would have done and the bairn so poorly.’
He stretched out his legs, so that one elegant boot held down the hem of her dress. ‘That’s not what mother says – she cannot speak highly enough of you. In her eyes you are an angel.’ He slid closer and, trapped by her skirt, she felt the heat of his breath on her face.
She tried to laugh him off. ‘I’m not an angel.’
‘No?’ William raised his arm, placed his hand behind his head. ‘That is good news.’
Her head was bent, her hair rippling from her coif, an escaped curl lying, like a question mark, across her cheek. William liked copper, even if his luck with red-headed lassies hadn’t always held. He thought of the wee slip in Stirling, and his hand slid inside the front of his ruff, tracing the fine scar on his neck, his eyes darkening. The little trollop wouldn’t have got the better of him if Munro had stayed sober and alert, but instead, humiliation. There had been no denying that the girl had clear, young skin and fire in her hair and a promise of a figure, though that too had proved a cheat . . .
His thoughts slid back to Sybilla. To her smooth skin, unbroken but for the dusting of freckles on the bridge of her nose. As to figure, it was aye difficult to estimate what lurked beneath a corset. But the discovery of it . . . he allowed his gaze to travel over her shoulders, down her neck, her bodice, counting the neat line of buttons, imagining opening them one by one. Oh yes . . . the discovery was half the pleasure. He’d dreamed of that particular voyage since first she came. Archie away on some business for his father and the rest of the household looking to his mother and to the bairn, the opportunity that had thus far eluded him was finally within his grasp. Casually he trailed his hand along the wall, tracing the pointing between the stone, the tips of his fingers reaching her neck. He felt her stiffen. He enjoyed spirit in a girl, it added spice to the proceedings.
He grasped her chin, forcing her head up.
She tried to twist away, to rise. ‘Lady Glencairn . . .’
“Is resting, as is the bairn, and you,’ William ran his tongue across his upper lip, ‘were sent to enjoy the sunshine. And I,’ his tongue completed the circle, ‘have come to see that you do.’
‘Let me go!’ She tugged at her skirt but he settled his feet more firmly on it, his grip on her face tightening.
‘I do but wish to give you the thanks you deserve.’
‘I have been thanked.’
He raised her hand and her sleeve fell back revealing her narrow wrist, the white flesh above. Releasing her chin he bent his head towards her palm, but she clenched it tight. He smiled, his eyes like glass, his tongue teasing at his teeth. Thought, feisty indeed. She stared at him unflinching and he returned her gaze.
‘Good, very good, but don’t think you’ll best me.’ He bent his head and drew a spiral on her wrist with his tongue, tasting salt and oil of roses and the faint sheen of sweat, each widening circle bringing him ever closer to the soft hollow of her elbow, his breath quickening. She was holding herself very still. ‘Soon,’ he said, ‘Soon you will be begging me . . .’
She thrust sideways, and down, throwing him momentarily off balance, and ducked away from his grip, dropping to the ground, scrabbling backwards, gathering herself to run; but he was too quick for her.
He hauled her up, seizing her elbows and, kicking aside the bench, pressed her into the angle of the wall, placing his hands flat against the stone on either side of her.
‘You cannot think to leave now, when things are getting interesting.’ He leaned into her, moulding the folds of her skirt to her legs, feeling the length, the warmth of them. Her shoulders were hunched, a coil of hair hanging like a tassel down the side of her head. He slid one hand from the wall, his fingertips exploring the pale skin of her neck and throat, the line of her shoulder blade. Grasping the length of loosened hair, he stroked it across his face. Felt her tremor as he slid the hair under her chin, jerking it sideways and up as if tightening a knot, pulling her head back. His mouth fastened on hers. She fought to keep her lips closed but he forced his tongue between them, worrying at her clenched teeth, his kiss insistent and bruising, while with his free hand he worked at the bodice of her dress.
In one swift move she opened her teeth to let his tongue slide between them, then bit down ha
rd, at the same time kneeing him in the groin, so that he reeled backwards with the twin pains, blood in his mouth. As he reached for her again, she gathered up her skirts and fled.
She was in the small chamber she shared with two of the other servants when the youngest maid came to cry her to the hall. Her hand at her mouth, she stared at Sybillia’s neck, at the skin scrubbed red, the crumpled dress discarded on the bed and the scissors that Sybilla was using to chop at the shank of hair she clutched in her hand.
‘Ye’re wanted below’ Then, in a whisper, ‘What are ye doing to yer hair?’
“Who wants me?’ Sybilla continued her assault on the hair. With a final clip she swung round, the scissors flashing, the jagged remnant of hair sticking out from the side of her head like frayed rope. The maid was on one foot, as if poised for flight. Sybilla repeated the question more gently, ‘Who wants me?’
‘Glencairn.’ Curiousity replaced the maid’s fear. ‘What for did ye do that?’
“It’s nothing.’ Sybilla licked her fingers and plastered down the uneven strands. Replacing her coif, she rummaged in the trunk under the window, emerging with the striped damask dress that Lady Glencairn had given her only this morning. An understanding between them that it would be more than suitable for a wedding. She shook out the copper folds and wriggled into it.
Archie and Glencairn were standing on one side of the hearth as Sybilla entered. William, who was by the window, neither turned nor acknowledged her. Lady Glencairn flashed a look at William’s stiff back, then at Sybilla, radiating defiance. Her voice was light, her words deliberately inconsequential.
‘I knew it was the colour for you more than me. Is this a dress rehearsal?’
Glencairn was hearty. ‘I hear we are to have a wedding and another Cunninghame stronghold. Dunisle, did you say Archie, on the Solway? I have long wished to consolidate our links with the Maxwells in those parts.’
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